Paradiso
by Jennifer N
Summary: You never thought you'd be someone's hero . . . until you met Sydney. It was always different with Sydney." Irina remembers. Companion to "Purgatory." COMPLETE
1. One

**Title:** Paradiso

**Author:** Jennifer N (jennifer_n97@hotmail.com)

**Summary:**  "You never thought you'd be someone's hero . . . until you met Sydney.  It was always different with Sydney."  Irina remembers.

**Categories:** Angst/Drama

**Spoilers:** through 3.04, "A Missing Link"

**Rating:** PG-13

**Distribution:** CM, SD-1, ff.net

**Disclaimer:**  These characters aren't mine, obviously.  Some dialogue/text is borrowed from episodes 1.01, "Truth Be Told," and 3.02, "Succession."  Also not mine.

**A/N:** This is a companion piece to "Purgatory."  Apparently Irina got jealous and wanted the chance to tell the story from her point of view . . .

For Steph, Becky, and Ciara32, who put up with me.  They are true saints.  (Although two of them *coughStephandBeckycough* can also be true devils . . .)

**Paradiso**

She wasn't supposed to be born.

You were supposed to seduce Bristow, earn his trust, sell his secrets.  A master met his mistress in the dueling games of love and country.

You just never expected to truly love him.

So when the pregnancy test came back positive, you looked at it with a mixture of shock and horror as your left hand held the stick and your right instinctively protected your stomach.  You knew what this meant, what your handler would say.

Termination.

Immediately.

But the idea of destroying this life that the two of you had created made you recoil, causing you to lose the contents of your stomach for the second time that morning.  You immediately decided that you would buy this child as much time as you could.  You would kiss Jack goodbye the next day as he left for three weeks to a remote corner of the world without saying a word.  You would welcome him back home with open arms, still keeping your secret to yourself.

You would wait until you were at least eight weeks along before thinking of going to a doctor.

You would convince Jack that the two of you should keep your pregnancy a secret for a few weeks, out of a supposed fear that you would miscarry.  He thought you feared the office gossip, the comments his colleagues and their wives might bestow upon you about six months of morning sickness and forty-eight hours of childbirth.

You were just hoping your handler wouldn't overhear any conversations at the office.

When you finally told your superiors, they were incensed at your duplicity.  You foolishly thought you had convinced them that a child would cement your position in Agent Bristow's life, that you would be allowed to add a new role to your growing list of titles.  Agent.  Wife.  Assassin.

Mother.

A car accident at twenty-seven weeks told you otherwise.  Reminded you that the KGB always got their way.

Well, almost always.

They just never expected you to fight so valiantly to save her.

*********

She was never supposed to leave the hospital alive.

You felt a panic course through your veins that you had never felt before when you realized that the contractions this time were the real thing.  You were only thirty-five weeks along, it was too soon, what if she didn't make it—you were so grateful Jack was home with you that evening.  Without him, you fear that you would have delivered her on your kitchen floor.

For a preemie, she was remarkably normal—average weight, strong vitals, excellent lungs.  You watched them carry your angel out of the room and blissfully allowed the drugs to seep into you as you slipped off into a dreamless sleep for a few hours.

When you woke, Jack was at your side, a large bouquet of flowers—daisies, your favorite—was on the small table, and your daughter lay tucked under a pink blanket in her bassinet.  You groggily opened your mouth to question him, but stopped when you saw the look in his eyes.

You knew that look, had seen it before when Jack would enter the house before letting you follow, sweeping for invisible intruders.  When he would drive to the university to walk you from your last class on Tuesday nights to your office across campus and finally to your car.  When he would monitor your salt intake because the doctor feared for your health in your third trimester.

Jack was always protective of you.  It was quite possibly the best indicator of his love that you had.  And now it seemed that not only did he have someone else to protect, there was a valid reason to protect her.

The KGB thought they could get to Sydney after she left the safety of your womb.

They didn't expect Jack to fight so valiantly to save her too.

_tbc_


	2. Two

You didn't mean to name her Sydney.

You and Jack argued more during your pregnancy than in the previous two and a half years of marriage.  He liked a name, you hated it.  You found the perfect name, he made a gagging noise.

If you hadn't loved him so much, you really would have killed him.  You smirk now at the thought.  _That would have certainly surprised him._

And so it continued, night after night, week after week, month after month, as you argued over the perfect name for your daughter.  Even when you finally compiled a short list of names, you incensed Jack further by refusing to pick just one.

_"We have to see her before we make such a monumental decision, Jack."_

_"See her?  _See _her?  As in, wait until after the delivery?"_

_"What?  Did you think we were going to pull her out, take a look at her, and then shove her back into my uterus so you could tell everyone the name we had chosen?"_

_"Laura, that—you—" he burst into laughter.  "Where did you come up with that?"  He shook his head ruefully.  "Okay, honey.  We wait until after she's born."_

_You smiled triumphantly.  "At least I've finally convinced you the baby's a girl."_

_"You'd better hope you're right, or we're going to have to combine six months of arguing about names into one day."_

Four days later you grinned as the doctor proclaimed "It's a girl!" and watched as Jack rolled his eyes at you.  _"You just _had_ to be right,"_ he mouthed, even as the grin overtook his features.

After the KGB's intervention that afternoon, your newborn was in your presence continuously.  The two of you had hour upon hour to count her fingers and toes, caress her soft skin, smooth the wisps of hair on the top of her head.

Forty-eight hours of staring did not help you come up with a name though.

You eliminated three names from the list; Jack vetoed the other two.  He groaned and pulled out the dog-eared copy of _1,001 Names for Baby_ that you had given him months earlier when you told him you were pregnant and began flipping through its pages yet again.  You began your familiar routine of calling out names, each taking turns offering suggestions while the other promptly vetoed them.

A small part of you began to wonder if maybe she could just be called "Baby Bristow" for the rest of her life.

You were approaching day three of your daughter's life when Arvin and Emily stopped by the hospital to visit you.  When they discovered that you were still searching for the perfect name, they groaned simultaneously before pummeling you with every girl's name they could think of.  Jack shook his head or you wrinkled your nose at every name—until you heard it.

Sydney.

You started to wrinkle your nose again and shake your head—until you noticed the way Jack's eyes had lit up.  _Sydney_ . . ._  It was a name the two of you had never considered before now, in part because you had noticed it in the name book and immediately dismissed it.  You never told him, or her for that matter, that your alias on your very first KGB mission was Sydney, that the name brought back bad memories that you had tried your best to repress.  But seeing the look on his face, the joy that he felt, you wavered.  You closed your eyes briefly, inwardly debating.  It was a name you could grow to love, you conceded, but only because of the precious girl who bore it._

Emily interrupted your musings as she remarked to her husband that the baby's name would not be a family name.  You bit your lip as you realized that this would be the closest to a family name that you could get.  You opened your eyes and smiled at your husband.

_"I think we've finally named our little girl."_

Sydney.

*********

You never thought you'd be someone's hero.

You grew up in a family—if it could be called that—where beatings were a daily occurrence, where declarations of love were never uttered.  It was a relief when the KGB recruited you at eighteen, for now you had a means of escape.  You vowed to absorb everything your professors taught you, master every trick of the game, and finally have some sort of power over your own life.

And you did.

You excelled in all of your classes, listened with rapt attention as top game theorists explained their methods to the madness.  You handled your firearms with ease and demonstrated early on that you were not at all squeamish—an important trait for someone in this line of business, your instructor pointed out.

You grew accustomed to being surrounded by men at the academy.  Women were still not regarded highly; very few were offered admission, and even fewer had the nerve to accept.  Those women who did accept were like you in many ways—escaping overbearing fathers while still honoring their country and family name.

There was another characteristic that you shared, an unspoken one.

Your intelligence and abilities were secondary—for now, at least—to your primary duty for your country.

You always found it ironic that in order to leave your father's bed you had to climb into someone else's.

By the time you were sent to America, you were used to the leers the officers would send your way, the looks of disdain from the women who knew you were employed by the KGB.  All of your life you had been mistreated and scorned, battered and bruised.  You had hoped to successfully complete this long-term mission and quickly move up the ranks of the KGB.

You wanted to be respected for your mind, not your body.  You wanted the incessant staring to stop.

Until you met Sydney.

It was always different with Sydney.

Sydney loved to stare at you from the day she was born.  She would look up at you with wide-eyed wonder; you worried that she could see through you to your soul.  Her eyes loved to follow you around the house as you did simple, mundane things that your mother never did.  Baking cookies.  Playing hide and seek.  Snuggling on the couch and watching cartoons.

As she grew older, her uncanny resemblance became evident to both you and Jack.  He was overjoyed—_"It's a good thing she took after you and not me"—while you were inwardly pleased, relieved that he would have a living, breathing, positive image to remind him of you even after you were gone._

Of course, no matter how much she looked like you, you could always see her inner resemblance to Jack.  You wonder now how many years it took for him to realize that.

You smile to yourself as you let your memories of her overtake you.  How she loved to play dress up, toddle around the house in your high heel shoes.  She managed to crash down the stairs one evening when she was three, you remember.  The faint scar left on her knee is now of the utmost importance as you continue your search.  _Who knew that a marker of child's play could help you find her almost thirty years later?_

The way she demanded to grow her hair long—_"Just like yours, Mommy"—and then have you brush it for what seemed like an eternity._

You realize now that you were wrong so many years ago.

After spending six months searching for her, you're starting to understand what the word "eternity" truly means.

_tbc_


	3. Three

She wasn't supposed to grow up alone.

You and Jack had always talked about adding to your family, but something always seemed to get in your way.

Sydney was two when you stopped taking the pill the first time—just as Jack got reassigned to Los Angeles.  You were stuck with a toddler, thousands of miles away from your husband, while you waited for your house to sell so you could rejoin him.  Three months later, you were finally settled into a new home and your family was reunited.

Jack was sent on a mission to Japan two days later.

Jack's workload increased so much when you first moved to L.A. that the two of you decided maybe it was best to hold off on a second child.  _"Let's wait until she's closer to starting school," he had suggested, and you had reluctantly agreed._

He, of course, had no idea that you might not be around when Sydney started kindergarten.

Your success as an assassin bought you more time as your alias.  You still think that your handler took perverse pleasure seeing you switch from ruthless assassin to loving mother in a matter of minutes.  You would watch as he would laugh with glee when he saw you teaching a class, or pushing Sydney on the swings at the playground, or holding Jack's hand as you stood in line at the movie theatre.  He knew that you could teach classes on seduction just as easily as Shakespeare; that you could shove away thugs using a far more powerful force than it took to propel a little girl in the air; that the hand that Jack clasped so tightly to his held the blood of those he once knew as colleagues.

By the time Sydney turned five, even your handler was beginning to grow weary of the mission.  _"You've been here almost nine years, Rina.  I know that's longer than we told you initially.  But don't worry.  We're working on extraction plans.  Just a few more months."_

You faked happiness that you would be going home soon—although where was your home now, you wondered—as you tried to stall them, pointing out that Jack had an important mission to carry out later in the year, a mission with valuable intel for the KGB.  _"Are you sure you can last that long?"_  The panel had looked at you curiously, suspiciously.  There had always been the occasional rumor that you were enjoying your mission a little too much, but they had always remained rumors.  Until now.

You evenly answered all of their questions, all the while plotting your next course of action.  You couldn't leave yet; it was out of the question.  Sydney was starting school in the fall.  She would need new clothes, and pencils and crayons and watercolors . . . and dammit, you didn't want to leave her.

You just needed to come up with a plan that would allow you to extend your mission.  And you knew exactly what would do the trick.

A baby.

For all of their efforts at termination, the KGB was loathe to admit that Sydney was a brilliant cover for you.  It gave you the illusion—it was always more than an illusion to you—of a loving family, one that helped you elude your enemies for ten years.  Maybe, just maybe, a second child could keep you in the States a little longer.

That fall Sydney climbed the steps of the school bus for the first time and entered a new world of numbers and letters and smiling faces.  And you mentioned to your husband that you thought you were ready to try again for another baby.  _"Maybe this one will look like you," you teased._

You've always wondered if he or she would have had an uncanny resemblance to Jack, as Sydney did to you.  But you never found out.

You called the number Jack had given you for emergencies one morning as you sat hunched over in your office.  You stopped biting your lip long enough to tell his colleague Ben who you were and that you needed to speak to your husband immediately.  Four agonizingly long minutes later, you finally heard his voice on the other end of the phone.  It was your undoing.  You were crying so hard that he would have rushed across town to be by your side anyway, but it was the words that came through the choked sobs that made him get to you even faster.

_"Something's wrong.  The baby—I don't know, Jack.  It hurts.  It really hurts."_

The two of you bypassed the waiting room, decorated in hearts and cupids, as you were rushed into an examining room at the hospital.  Your vitals were taken, your heartbeat was checked.  They couldn't find the second heartbeat.

It wasn't your fault, they reassured you later.  It wasn't your husband's fault, you reassured him when he would clench his fists and try to keep the tears from appearing in his eyes.

You didn't even have the KGB to blame this time.

Your plan to extend your mission backfired brilliantly.  Not only were you no longer pregnant, but you would never again have the opportunity to carry a new life inside you.

_"They couldn't stop it . . . there was so much blood . . . God, Laura, I'm so sorry.  It was this or you would have bled to death, and I need you too much . . . they said there's still a small chance we can have another baby someday—okay, miniscule chance, but it's worth a shot . . . and we can always adopt . . . I'm so sorry about this, Laur, but I had to."_

How was he to know that he had just signed your death sentence?

The KGB informed you to expect your extraction at any time in the next six to twelve months.  You spent nine months on pins and needles, always wondering if today was the day you would get the call.  Nine months.  Now you can laugh through your tears at the irony.

Jack looks at you now, a question on his face.  You shake your head and squeeze his hand as you stare at the slabs of stone in front of you, illuminated only by the new moon.

Your eyes rest on a small stone with a single date on it, and your throat closes once more.  Finally you tear your eyes away and shift to the left, past your resting place, over to the granite with an angel etched on the top.

You watch out of the corner of your eye as he fights for control staring at the newest addition to the cemetery.  You wrap your arm around him and lean into his shoulder, letting him know you're still in this together, just as you were the day that you buried your youngest.

On that day he tried to lift your spirits.  Today it's your turn.

You can't believe she's gone.  You can't.

With your family's twisted history, you know it's possible for a second Bristow woman to come back from the dead.

_tbc_


	4. Four

You never thought Jack and Sydney would grow so far apart.

They both loved you—you never questioned that—and you loved them in return with a fervor that still surprises you.  You had an excellent relationship with your husband during your years as Laura, and your little girl always looked up to you, tried to emulate you.

But there was always an extra-special connection between the two of them that could not be ignored.  It was that connection that you recalled every day during your captivity in Kashmir.  They had faced a horrific loss—you hoped Jack still thought of it as horrific—but at least they had each other.  Somehow they would survive.  Together.

It's too bad it didn't work out that way.

You knew he would face problems as a single parent.  Some would be caused by his job—_What__ am I going to do when I'm out on assignment?—while others would befuddle even the most committed fathers.  Watching his little girl become a woman.  Battling her as she petulantly reminded him that for now, she was still a child.  Taking care of her every need and want, even if it was something that no CIA manual could prepare him for._

You jerk your head in understanding.  Maybe _that's_ why he hired a nanny.

He always was all thumbs when brushing Sydney's hair.  It's not surprising she never wore pigtails on the nanny's day off.

By the time you were released from Kashmir, Jack had returned home to your daughter.  You had been shocked to realize he spent six months in solitary; you can only hope he has not met a similar fate now.  It's been five weeks since you last saw him, and you're starting to get worried.

After your release, you allowed yourself one evening during that first year to spy on your favorite two people, noticing how Sydney clung to Jack, how he clung to her, how lost they still seemed.  You wanted so badly to rush to them, to hold them, to make them yours again.  But you couldn't.  Laura was dead, destroyed as the car slipped into the cold, murky water.

And Jack was doing his damndest to make sure that your country, your beliefs, were destroyed too.

The Agency reluctantly allowed him to return to active duty.  They didn't know it at the time, but it was one of the best decisions they ever made.  For now he was hell bent on proving himself as an agent, making his accomplishments of yesteryear look pedestrian.  You could tell he had only one goal in mind—to destroy the KGB.  Since he believed you were dead, he fought to take down the organization that had sent you to him.

By all accounts he was successful.  Of course, by then you were working for yourself, not that pathetic excuse of an intelligence organization.  But how was he to know that by destroying the KGB he actually strengthened your stronghold in the underground?

He couldn't see that at the time.  He was too busy destroying everything in his life that had a connection to you, as Laura or Irina.  Too busy destroying the connection with the one person he needed most.

Sydney.

*********

She wasn't supposed to be a field agent.

Or so Jack thought.  You always knew otherwise.

No matter what he believed, you never tested her, never trained her in the rudimentary skills of espionage.

You didn't have to.  Somehow you always knew who she was destined to become.  Maybe it was because of who her parents were.  Maybe it was because you could already see the markings of a genius.  Maybe it was because you saw what an active little girl she was and instinctively knew that she would never be the type who was satisfied sitting behind a desk in a sterile office.

Even though Jack avoided your daughter, sometimes not seeing her much more than you did—and you were supposedly _dead—you knew he had to see what you saw.  You knew that no matter how much he tried to distance himself from her, he would always step in to protect her, even if she didn't realize she needed it.  You knew he would have a plan._

As Sydney entered her last year of high school, you intercepted a recorded conversation between your husband and an old friend of his.  You heard him describe his plans to recruit Sydney and put her behind a desk as soon as she graduated from college.  You cringed as he outlined his strategy, obviously proud of his well-thought out plan.

There was only one problem.  It would never work.

Apparently Arvin agreed with you.

You knew before Jack did that Sydney had been recruited.  You can still remember where you were—one of countless stuffy parties at a Parisian banquet hall—when you saw a tall strawberry blonde enter the room on the arm of a slightly older gentleman.  You froze for an instant, watching, waiting, frantically placing her companion and practically seeing the light bulb go off above your own head.

Not only does truth take time, as you told her more than once.  Sometimes the truth hurts.

That night the truth pierced your heart like few things had before.

Even knowing that this was what she was meant to do, seeing her parade through the room on the arm of Noah Hicks sickened you.  It was no longer just an idea or a plan—Sydney was in.  

In a sick, twisted way, that is the moment you always look back on as when you finally realized that your little girl was all grown up.  She wasn't a little girl burrowed in her father's arms.  She wasn't the quiet girl who hung back while the rest of the girls in her class giggled over the latest pop star.

She was independent.  Confident.  Self-assured.  Deadly.

Just like her mother.

There was only one problem.  The Alliance.  While her employer didn't matter to you—CIA, KGB, Alliance, they were all the same, really—you hated that she didn't truly know who she was working for.  If she had been anyone else, you would have laughed off the concern and brushed it aside.  But she was yours—_is yours, dammit—and things are different when you're trying to protect your daughter from afar._

It was much easier to protect her when she was employed by SD-6.  Now that she's Julia, it's almost impossible to watch out for her.  That doesn't stop you from trying, though.

You _are_ her mother.

A mother who left her little girl to save her.  A mother who renounced her—_"I have no daughter"—when KGB officials offered to bring her to you.  __"She can always stay with your parents when you're away on business.  Your father is_ in good health, is he not?"_  A mother who always watched and waited and hoped and dreamed for the best thing she ever created._

A mother who was inexplicably relieved when her daughter learned the truth.  _"SD-6 is not a black ops division of the CIA.  SD-6 is a branch of the __Alliance__.  You work for the very enemy you thought you were fighting."_

You knew that the stakes had risen, the danger was far greater than it was before.  But for the first time in a long time, the truth was beginning to rise to the surface.  The only lie left, the only lie still severing the connection between father and daughter, was you.  And that, you knew, would change soon.

Almost against your will, you felt the joy rush through you.  Soon.  Your day was coming.

You hadn't felt this overjoyed since they placed a wailing, red-faced infant in your arms.

Now, as you receive intel on the latest assassination from the underworld, you can only hope you will feel that joy again soon.

*********

You never thought your walk in would be one of the best things to happen to you.

You had hoped to see Sydney again, talk to Jack face-to-face for the first time in twenty years.  You had hoped for the chance to get one of them, both of them, to understand your position.  Maybe admit that they had never stopped loving you, the way you never stopped loving them.

Your time with the CIA eclipsed everything you had ever imagined.

Yes, they were both slow to trust you, to even speak with you.  Yes, the missions you went on with them were planned out months in advance.

But the tears that threatened to fall down your face when you spoke with Sydney were real.  The way your throat tightened and you could only clasp your husband's hand on the aircraft was genuine.  As you told Sydney just before knocking her out on the ice rink—you really did regret that—your love for them was never a contrivance.  No matter what they believed.

The connections that the three of you shared were unconventional at best, but they were real and raw and painful and . . . wonderful, because only a year earlier it would have been impossible to forge that connection.  It was hard to believe that only a year earlier they both thought you were dead, Sydney only knew you as Laura, Jack had not yet told Sydney who she really worked for.

A lot can change in a year.  You've been reminded of that again in the last twelve months.  Sydney has been missing and found again, although she doesn't know who she is.  Jack was found and is now missing—you can only imagine what that pompous ass Kendall has done to him.  And you are once again alone, fighting for just a glimpse of your family.  Hoping to reunite them once more.

A small voice inside your head points out that your life would have been so much easier if you had never taken that fateful assignment.  That your life wouldn't be so shattered.  That you wouldn't be standing here in the rain, hoping for a glimpse of a woman who bears your face but a stranger's name.  You wouldn't be frantically checking the newspapers for a particular ad; your heart wouldn't race every time you logged on to your computer.

And yet you can't regret the day Jack's case file was placed in your hands.  You can't regret your first encounter with him, or your second, or all the ones that followed it.  You can't regret the day you held your newborn in your arms.

You can only regret that here you are, thirty years later, aimlessly walking through the park that you and your husband used to visit with your two-year-old daughter.  You can still see her, pigtails flying, as she raced towards her favorite spot, the carousel.  You can almost see her sitting on a pink pony—her favorite—going round and round, her tiny image, her baby voice, echoing in your mind.

You know she's alive.  Tonight's encounter proved that.

But you wish you could get your daughter back.  Not this stranger wearing her face, but your daughter.

You'd like to think that it's still possible.  It's only been eighteen months since the fire.

But you're not so sure anymore.

_tbc___


	5. Five

_*snickers*  For Steph :-)_

You never meant to think of Michael Vaughn as a son.

His father wasn't the first, nor the last, agent you killed with at least one young child at home.  At last count, your orders had left nineteen children—some of those children were in their forties by now—without a parent.

But in every case but one, you never saw a photograph of the happy, smiling, childish faces.  You never saw them rush to their parents and wrap their arms around them.  You never saw the tears when they learned that mommy or daddy wasn't coming home this time.

You never had to attend their funerals on your husband's arm.

Just Agent Vaughn's.

You had barely walked in the door from your "weekend with the girls" when a somber Jack told you the news.  _"William is dead."_  You did your best to act surprised; this was the first of your hits he had ever told you about.  For some reason, he took this one personally.  _"I've already packed __Sydney_'s things; she finally settled down and took a nap.  You'd better go upstairs and pack—repack, I guess—quickly.  Our flight leaves in a few hours."__

You had protested, argued that you had never known the man—this much was true; he was just a name to you—that it wasn't right to cart a sick child across the country, and weren't the other passengers just going to love you on the flight?

He stopped your protests with a sorrowful look and the words that haunted you on every hit thereafter.  _"He's young, married, one kid.  We used to work together, grab a beer or watch the game together before he met his wife and got relocated.  The mission he was on yesterday . . . I was supposed to take that job, but I refused it because I knew Syd wasn't feeling well and you had had your weekend with your college friends planned for weeks.  __Langley__ called him and he agreed to do this on his weekend off . . .Laur, that could have been me.  That was supposed _to be me.  The least I can do is attend the man's funeral.  That could have been me . . ."__

You had known the location of your hit changed the day before you left, that new instructions were placed inside an extra book the antique bookstore supposedly sent overseas because you were such loyal customers.  Jack was impressed by the kindness of the elderly gentleman with a twinkle in his eye who had taken such a liking to the two of you, young and in love on your honeymoon.  _"You remind me of my wife and me at your age."_  Jack, of course, never dreamt that he was exchanging money and giving his address to one of the KGB's oldest informants.

When the extra book came via special delivery that day, you knew it had to be important, but it wasn't until you returned that you realized _how_ important.  If you had not decided to peruse your new selection before your trip, if Sydney had not been fighting the croup, if Jack hadn't been such a good father . . . you could have been face to face with him.  Your original target.  Your enemy.  Your husband.  Your Jack.

You supposed he was right—the least you could do was attend Agent Vaughn's funeral.

It was better than attending Jack's.

So you dutifully repacked your suitcase, placed Sydney in her car seat, and drove to the airport where you waited while Jack parked in long-term parking.  You cuddled Sydney and rubbed her back, hoping her lungs would clear, while you approached thirty thousand feet.  You quickly shook Mrs. Vaughn's hand, murmured a condolence to her son, and then sat in the back corner, bouncing your daughter in your lap, waiting for her cough medicine to take effect, holding her close as she slept.

You tried your best to nap on the return flight, but every time you closed your eyes you saw their haunted faces staring back at you.  You saw them night after night, week after week, until Jack feared for your health and suggested you see someone.  He thought you feared losing him, thought that your nightmares consisted of you standing over his coffin.

He didn't realize that in them you saw what he and Sydney would face someday.  A spouse and a child, devastated, inconsolable.  You held your daughter even tighter to your chest during that time, you remember now as you arrange flowers; you said "I love you" more often than you ever had before.  All because of your reaction to a funeral you were never supposed to attend.

It made your superiors livid when they heard the news.  _"What were you thinking showing up at that man's funeral?"_ they questioned you repeatedly.  You never were able to give them a good answer.

Since they were furious with you for attending the funeral, you feel it was probably for the best that they didn't know what was going on in your mind.  Not just the nightmares, the fears of what Jack and Sydney's lives would be like someday.

Call it an agent following her gut instinct, a woman's intuition, something only a mother could know . . . whatever it was, it screamed to you, even then.

As you entered the funeral home that fateful evening, you realized you had just been introduced to a new player in the game.  A player who wouldn't even join the CIA for almost twenty years.

It's not that you followed him, studied him like you did your daughter after you left.  But you never forgot his name, always wondered in the back of your mind what was going to happen to him.  When one of your moles reported back to you that he was at the Farm, it was all you could do to suppress a cackle.  You _had been right all those years ago.  Now if you could only determine his purpose in all of this . . ._

One evening a few years later at an old pier confirmed what you had suspected.  At last, all of the pieces had fallen into place.

You had watched with amusement when the CIA—an organization notorious for its monumental errors in judgment—paired up your daughter and the son of a man you killed.  Jack, on the other hand, immediately panicked and used his connections to get him pulled off the case, convincing his old friend Ben that Michael was too inexperienced to be a handler.  That a more experienced agent would be better suited for this operation.  Devlin agreed, and the switch was made.

It's possible that Jack got to breathe one deep sigh of relief before he heard the latest news—that Sydney had superseded him and demanded that "Agent Vaughn" be promoted.  With that, you sat back and watched the show unfold before you; this was family drama at its best.  All of Jack's new plans, so intricately designed and well-strategized, were now worthless.  Sydney had demonstrated that she was as much a Bristow as Jack was—maybe _then_ he finally saw the similarities, but you doubt it—and that sometimes things would have to be done her way.  No alternatives.

Which is why shortly thereafter you found yourself slipping in the shadows of a pier, watching as a beeper was thrown into the ocean, as two hands clasped for the first time.  The mother in you screamed as you realized that you and Jack were in trouble.

Michael was far more dangerous to your little girl than Noah ever was.

You closely observed them in the following months as these two young agents worked together time and again, becoming true partners.  Truth be told, it was one of the best match-ups you had ever seen, although you hesitated to admit it.  (And knew Jack would rather die than agree with you.)  Seeing how much they accomplished, even as inexperienced as they were in some ways, made you wonder what it would have been like if you and Jack had been able to work together for the last twenty years.

Maybe then your recent collaboration would have been more successful.

Sighing, you straighten your maid's outfit and carry a vase outside of the large estate and place it on one of the countless tables under the grandiose white tent.  From your vantage point you can see the ceremony taking place, but none of the dozens of government agents in attendance bother to notice you.

Again.  The CIA—the organization that decided this event was not a threat to national security, that there was no way a known terrorist would slip in—is an organization notorious for its monumental errors in judgment.

The ceremony continues without you as you search the crowd for familiar faces.  You see Kendall and his shiny head glinting in the hot sun.  You see Weiss trying his best not to fidget in his rented tuxedo.

You see Michael, holding another woman's hand.  You had known this would happen—for goodness sake, look at where you are—but you still ache for your daughter.  You know she's buried somewhere inside this Julia person.

You hear the applause and cheers.  You hear the murmurs from the guests, comments about moving on quickly, how happy they seem, how much she helped him.

But you don't really hear them.  Your eyes are too busy at the moment.

For the first time you see the gold band on his finger.

And you wish that your daughter had placed it there.

_tbc___


	6. Six

You never realized just how brilliant your daughter was until it was too late.

When she began high school you had one of your trainees break into the building to access her permanent record.  The grades you saw—_English, A; Algebra I, A; Physical Science, A; Geography, A—reassured you, led the trainee to ask why you were smiling so much.  For then you knew your suspicions were correct.  Sydney was able to move past her mother's death, as much as it pained you to dwell on that fact, and focus on her life, her schoolwork._

And with her family background and grades like that, it was only a matter of time before an intelligence organization snatched her up.

_Why did it have to be Arvin of all people?_ you silently groan to yourself now, then shake your head.  You don't have time to focus on the past.

But another part of you disagrees, tells you that that's all you have left.  That you can't afford to lose the precious memories you have of your daughter, that you can't let the images of this strange woman with dark, curly hair replace the images of a wide-eyed, gleeful little girl.

You know Jack rolled his eyes every time you called Sydney brilliant, especially if you said it in her presence.  _"You don't need to give her such a big head,"_ he would admonish you later.  For some reason your retort, which included an innocent comment about the size of her ears, always led to a thwack on your arm.  You find you can smile now at the memory.

You amble into your office and uncover a safe.  After entering the proper combination, you let the door open and its contents spill out.  You try not to open it too often, but on nights like tonight . . . it's necessary.  For your mind, for your soul, for the sake of your husband and daughter—wherever they are.

It's taken you twenty years to accumulate these artifacts, items that are far more valuable to you than any work of Milo Rambaldi.  There are the requisite photographs, which you carefully page through, swallowing occasionally and trying to keep the tears at bay.  But it's the more uncommon items that have you biting your lip and haphazardly searching for a box of tissues.

Old ticket stubs.  Matches from the restaurant you went to on your one month anniversary.  A locket Jack gave you the first Christmas together—you had only been dating a few months, you recall, and he was nervous that you wouldn't like it.

Letters to Santa Claus tied up with a red ribbon.  The earlier ones include requests for Barbie dolls and roller skates.  The later ones plead for her daddy to be home in time, for her mommy to come back to her.

A lock of hair from Sydney's first hair cut.  You cried so much at the hair salon that day that Jack lorded that over you for weeks.

The collection of letters—notes, really—that Jack left for you over the years.  On your pillow, on his pillow, on the windshield of your car, mailed from faraway locales.  Short, long, serious, funny—it wasn't the notes themselves, it was the fact that he took the time to write them that made you love him even more.

At the very bottom of the safe is a metal box with a magnet on it that Sydney painted one snowy day when she was home with the flu.  You carefully open the box and begin to peruse the refrigerator collection.  That's what Jack always called it, teasing you as you tried to find room for one more drawing on the large appliance.

It's hard to believe that some of these papers are almost thirty years old; several are curled and yellowed with age.  But in your mind you still see them as they were when chubby hands placed them in yours, eager and excited to show off her latest creation.  Hearts, flowers, horsies—she always did call the carousel horsies, you remember now—rainbows, Mommy, Daddy, Syddey.  These were the subjects of the refrigerator collection.

You rummage through the bright colored pieces of construction paper, turning each over to read the date and comments that a young Jack and Laura added, using Sydney's words, of course.  _"Me and Daddy playing at the horsies.__  April 7, 1979."  "Happy Birthday, Mommy!  1978."  "Me and the Easter Bunny.  1980."_

_"Me and Mommy and Daddy at the long thing over the water.__  June 1, 1980."  You silently chuckle to yourself now, remembering Jack's face when Sydney dictated _that_ to him.  You both looked over her head and grinned, trying your best not to laugh.  To a small child, the pier was just "the long thing over the water," more or less.  It was one of her favorite places—second only to the carousel.  Sydney could spend hours at the pier, staring through the slats at the water below her, watching the boats as they passed, just absorbing her surroundings._

She always was observant, perceptive.  Wise beyond her years, Emily used to say.  The more you watched her, the more you agreed with that long-ago statement.  It never ceased to amaze you that she was so perceptive, that her eyes and heart caught so much more than most people ever noticed.  Perhaps because she was alone for most of her life, she was able to attune herself to others in a way that few people do.

You just never expected her to be so perceptive about you.

You had just finished a call with one of your top associates when one of your young agents came running into your office.  You looked up at her coldly, ready to kick her out, when through her pants you heard the one word that mattered most.  _"_Sydney___."_

As she gulped for air, you finally heard what she was saying and rushed to turn on the nearby television set.  Flipping some switches, you were finally able to intercept a local LA station, where a car chase was in progress.

_"You're sure this is her?"_

_"Positive.  Our CIA liaison says that Agent Bristow was removed from FBI custody an hour ago.  At about the same time, four cars were taken.  This one's her."_

_"Interesting."_  You had steepled your fingers together and summarily dismissed her, watching the coverage closely.  They were gaining on her, you realized as your eyes narrowed.  And she had blocked herself into a corner.  You leaned in as the car stopped, hearing the officer on the megaphone order her out of the car.

You like to think that you and Sydney realized her only option at the same time, for you had no sooner whispered _"Keep driving" than she did just that—off the pier and into the water below._

You jerked your head back as you continued to watch the news station.  Of all the times for your daughter to obey you, it had to be now . . . but had she survived?  Was it even possible?

You nodded your head grimly, even if was just to yourself, as understanding washed over you.  She _would survive.  Of that you were certain._

And as soon as she surfaced, she would know.  And Jack would know.

Mommy never died.

It looked like Sydney's Christmas wish from long ago was finally going to come true.

She finally had her daddy back.  And soon she would have her mommy too.

You blink back tears as you remember the way she would hold both of your hands, how excited she was when all three of you were together.  She loved you each individually, but she was happiest when you were both with her.  Her family.

_Your_ family.

You flip through the papers, searching for one piece of artwork in particular.  You finally find it at the bottom of the pile, and triumphantly pull it out to stare at it.  This is one of your most recent acquisitions, something you stole from Jack's house just a few years ago.  The day Danny was murdered, you remember now.  While Jack was flying across town, trying to save a man he had never even met, you were busy rifling through old boxes and grabbing a few more relics for your collection.

It's almost ridiculous how long it took you to finally track this picture down.  Each time you broke in—for a senior agent, Jack's own security system is severely lacking—you searched through boxes and filing cabinets, only to come up with nothing.  On this trip, though, you ventured down the stairs and crept into his office, finally finding it at the very back of a desk drawer.  Obviously, it had been special to Jack too.

But he had had it for twenty years.  It was your turn now.

You can still remember the day you urged Sydney to show this off to Jack.  She was four and so excited that he was back from one of his trips that seemed to last forever and ever in her eyes.  This one stayed on the refrigerator the longest, you suppose; you know it was still there on that final day you drove to the university.  Jack probably took it down after he learned you truly were, although apparently even he couldn't bear to destroy it.

_"Dady + Momy + __Sydney__ = Famle."_

It's one of those pieces of art that only a mother and father could love, you think fondly to yourself as you stare at the misspelled words and the oddly shaped images that are supposed to be _"the horsies, going round and round and round."_

But in the end, isn't that what it's all about?  Jack.  You.  Sydney.  Together as a family.

You briefly had the chance to be a family again during your stay in Los Angeles, but it's been two years since that reunion.  Even though you're not certain where Jack is now, you know you'll find him.  You always do.

But you're not so sure about finding Sydney.  And you miss her.

The baby they placed in your arms after too many hours of labor.  The little girl with pigtails who wanted to be just like you.  The six-year-old you hugged tightly on that fateful morning, knowing that your _"Be good.  I love you," held so much more meaning than it ever had before.  The teenager you watched from afar as she navigated her way through a changing world._

The young woman turned agent who surprised you and your operatives on more than one occasion.  The woman with streaked makeup and bright blue hair that you met for the first time in the middle of Taipei.

The daughter who rushed to hug you even as U.S. Marshals ordered you to stand down.

You miss _her_.

_tbc___


	7. Seven

You were never supposed to last this long in the business.

Being the risk-taker you are, and seeing as you joined the KGB at eighteen, you sometimes wondered if you would live to see thirty or forty.

You were half-right, you concede to yourself now as you wait for the plane to land.  Irina lived past forty.  Laura didn't.

Over the years you've accumulated more broken bones, more concussions, more gunshot wounds than most people can ever imagine.  You've used up your store of nine lives and then some—sometimes you wonder if you get a new set of nine each year, you've had so many close calls and just-misses in your career.

You are still cataloging your ongoing list of injuries when the aircraft taxis to the ground and you are finally allowed to remove your seatbelt.  You remain in your seat as everyone rushes around you, trying at once to grab their suitcases and dash away to waiting colleagues or friends or family.

It's been a long time since you had someone waiting for you at the airport that you actually cared about.  Hell, it's been a long time since you even _traveled with someone you cared about.  The last time had to be when you and Jack traveled around the world at the CIA's expense.  Bangkok, Hong Kong, Panama . . . as much as you enjoyed getting out of that cell, truly working with Jack for the first time, you still think your favorite part was your conversation on the plane._

_"I never thanked you for everything that . . . for raising our daughter."_

Jack obviously remembered your exchange as well as you did.  Thirteen months ago—the last time you saw him, a small voice points out worriedly inside your head—he reminded you of what you had said, told you his latest plan to exchange intel.  You had teased him that you weren't sure two Cold War spies could truly jump into the twenty-first century but relented when you saw his stony glare.  So much for a moment when you could forget all that was wrong in your lives.

Not that you ever forgot who you were, just how many obstacles you faced every day.  How much you love your daughter.

Sydney was always forefront in your mind, even though you kept yourself from her for twenty years, even though a part of you always hated yourself for abandoning your baby.  She was your first and last thought, and many in between, as you fought for your life in Kashmir.  Finally broke free from the KGB once and for all.  Began your own syndicate.  Defeated your friends—if they could be called that—and enemies as you worked your way to the top.  Christened yourself "The Man."

Read a copy of Sydney's CIA statement that a liaison forwarded to you.

It really was Tolstoy long.

Being Sydney's mother is your proudest accomplishment, even though you haven't truly been her mother in years.  The way your heart skipped a beat when you felt that first flutter in your stomach, the determination that helped you stay awake for forty-eight hours as you cared for your sick little girl, the rush of love you felt when she snuggled in your arms—it surpassed any assignment you ever had, any interest you ever had.  It was the best time of your life.

It's unfortunate that time and circumstance kept you away from her for so many years.

But perhaps your luck is changing, you think to yourself as you finally exit the plane and confidently walk down the terminal, your bright red wig firmly in place.  It causes people to stare at you, but their eyes focus on your hair, not your face.  You know you will slip through security undetected.  Just like you always do.

You wheel your carry-on towards one of the newsstands that populate LAX, searching for a particular newspaper.  It's a long shot, you know, but you can't risk not checking for even one day.  You can't afford to lose any window of opportunity you may have.

And then you see it.

You quickly close and open your eyes, certain you are dreaming.  But no, there it is, in black and white for all the world to see.  Your hair falls down over your face as you allow a grin to overtake your features.

This will fit nicely next to the refrigerator collection once you get home.

You slowly, methodically hail a taxi and travel to your hotel suite.  You tip the bellboy, close the door soundly behind you, and rush to unpack your laptop.  You press the power button, and minutes later you are logged on.  And then you wait.

And wait.

And begin cursing the day you were ever given the assignment with this bast—

You interrupt your own tirade as you hear a once-familiar ding.  _It's about time, you silently scold him.  You suppose you should give him a break, but really, why bother?  Instead, you merely right-click your mouse to chat with him privately._

It's sad the two of you have been reduced to this.  Although this _is more contact than you've had in the last year, you remind yourself._

You allow yourselves mere moments to chat, to become more than shadows of yourselves, before he gets down to business.

_"Our daughter is alive."_

You gape at the computer screen.  Those words—you've been waiting two years for them.  He didn't type _"__Sydney__ is alive," for that would have told you what you already knew, that she was physically alive, regardless of her persona._

But calling her _"our daughter"_ . . . those are the words you have longed for.  Your baby, your little girl, your smart, fiercely independent grown daughter is finally herself again.  You find yourself choking back a sob as you conclude your IM and log off the computer.

You have made many mistakes in your life, too numerous to count.  But you've always been punished for your choices in some way, always had to face the consequences.  Perhaps now you are being granted one wish for the things you did right in your own way.

You lean back and reread your brief chat.  _"Our daughter is alive."_  This is your reward.  You allow the tears to slip down your cheeks unnoticed as you absorb the good news.

This is your reward, you decide, for saving your family by leaving them, even as it killed you; for accepting the devil's outstretched hand one morning in Panama; for turning their worlds upside down by coming back from the dead.

After twenty-four years you know your family will finally be reunited.

And to you, this is paradise.

~~~fin~~~

Thanks to everyone who's read and commented.  I appreciate it!  And always, huge thanks to the three who see the rough versions—Becky, Steph, and Ciara32.


End file.
